Paris Gym, Part 2

Once upon a time I belonged to a real gym, where I paid membership dues and signed up for weight training classes, and listened in on conversations in the women's locker room -"Did she get that face lift?" "Oh no, she's doing chi gong instead", etc. (Obviously the gym was in California). But those days are over, for several reasons, not least the fact that I absolutely hate gyms and loathe going to them and would rather be out of shape forever than have to listen to someone who looks like a walking testosterone experiment tell me what to do.

I do, however, accept the premise that the human body needs to exert itself now and then, and so I appreciate the fact that Paris is a good place for what the experts call "built-in exercise." Witness these 10 or so kilos of food that I walked from the store and brought up the 5 flights to our apartment last week. The load was light enough to carry without help, but heavy enough that I had to keep shifting the bags and box along the way, giving my biceps, triceps, forceps and every other kind of "ceps" a very good little work-out. The best thing about this particular kind of workout is that when it's over you get to be in the comfort of your own home, ready to make a yummy lunch. It sure beats mopping sweat off some old piece of cracked leather equipment in a room full of people looking at themselves.